I hauled my bag as far as the landing upstairs. Then before I could decide not to, I turned the handle to Maddy’s room, went in, and sat on her bed.

•  •  •

In the months when I could bear neither to stray too far from the house nor to keep myself too busy, I would look into Maddy’s room from the door. It felt intrusive to enter when she could not invite me. Now I was in full view of her posters, her shaggy rug, her white dresser with the oval mirror, objects that were regarding me with the level gaze of things that could be converted to other uses.

Experimentally I leaned back against the triangle cushion, circling one wrist with the fingers of the other hand to survey the room the way she did, queen of her world. While I was in this position, my cell phone slid from the pocket of my shirt and fell between the mattress and wall. I poked my hand down. Box. Book. Cardboard. Some kind of folder, furry with dust. I had to smile. Maddy had inherited my approach to housekeeping. Nowadays Mrs. Walsh only ran the vacuum around the rest of the house.

It was too much trouble to find a flashlight, so instead I knelt on the bed and pulled out enough objects to make space for my hand. I blew off the dust and held each one for a moment. A collage of a city street she’d brought home in third grade. Her eager, bashful face. The Sexwise book I had given her. I hoped its no-nonsense advice had served her well. I tried a matter-of-fact smile: so far, so good. Next was the pink plastic box, half diary, half keepsake holder, a Christmas present from Rose. To open it you needed a four-digit code, long forgotten.

What a comical performance! In my presence she had made a point of punching in the code, to remind me that she alone could gain entrance, and then elaborately shielded the contents of the box from my gaze. If I turned away too readily, she offered to let me see; if I declined, she followed me around, growing more agitated and finally insisting that I look at her private things. Of course the catch could be forced, but I was pleased to note I had no desire to break in to the diary of a nine-year-old, or to know what trinkets she had seen fit to hide there. Last item: a green file folder with one word scrawled across it. Antonio.

Even as a teenager, Maddy had roundly childish handwriting; the i was dotted with a circle. I saw myself as if from above, kneeling on the bed. My hands felt weak, numb almost, while what they held was twitching with life. I wanted to lift the flap. I could not bring myself to lift the flap. Slowly I lifted the flap.